


Snow Angels

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, blizzard fic, total fluffy nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Because jomarchfwf asked for blizzardfic. Literally wrote this in a tumblr post window  the day after shoveling two feet of snow. This is probably as close to a drabble as I get?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Angels

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Not mine.

"Felicity, why are we outside during a blizzard?" Oliver asked, his uninsulated-leather-glove-covered hands shoved into the pockets of his designer black wool overcoat. 

Boston was bright-white and eerily quiet, with no cars on the road and only a few stir-crazy pedestrians wandering the snowy streets. Oliver definitely looked a little cold as he paused on the corner and looked to the crossing sign for guidance.

Felicity beamed at him from underneath her climate-appropriate wool cap. “Because the blizzard is over and now it’s time for snow angels.”

"It’s still snowing," he pointed out, his chin ducking a little lower into his fancy cashmere scarf. 

She scoffed at that, squinting against the brightness of sunlight glinting off the all-white landscape. “It’s just spitting a little.” Then she stepped into the empty street. “Come on, there’s still a ban on traffic.” 

He grumbled something too low for her to catch, but followed her dutifully across the street from their swanky hotel to the snowdrift-covered public gardens. She loved the sound of fresh snow crunching beneath her boots and the frigid wind in her face. It made her think of her first snowstorm as a student living in Cambridge — the girl raised in a desert staring, dumbfounded, at snowflakes landing on her outstretched mitten. She’d nearly gotten frostbite with her inadequate jacket and her stubborn insistence on staying outside and twirling euphoric circles in the falling snow.

A glance at Oliver confirmed that he was not enjoying this wintry walk nearly as much as she was. But she hadn’t _made_ him come with her — hell, she hadn’t even _invited_ him. He could just go back to the hotel if he wanted to be a grumpy Gus.

As if she’d spoken aloud, Oliver turned his head and met her gaze. After a moment, the edge of his mouth tilted upwards. “There’s snow in your hair.”

"It happens." Felicity tucked her arm through his and pulled him past the impressive iron gates towards the large statue of George Washington on a horse. "In the spring," she told him, "there are thousands of tulips. It’s amazing."

"We should come back in the spring, then," he shot back. "I prefer flowers to snow."

"Okay, _Oscar_ ,” she sing-songed at him, pulling him toward the edge of the footpath where she knew the snowbank hid a knee-high chain to keep pedestrians on the paved pathways.

"Oscar?" he repeated.

"The grouch," she answered absently, more interested in her options to reach the fresh, untouched piles of snow on what in the summer was bright green lawns. 

"What are you doing?" he asked, hovering behind her.

"Duh," she shot back. "Snow angels." With that, she leaned one purple mitten on the snowbank and swung her right leg as far as she could, trying to land in the slightly-less-tall snow just beyond. Her leg sunk up to her mid-thigh, and Oliver huffed a laugh behind her.

"Need a hand?" he asked, sounding entirely too amused. Though she supposed she would take a mocking Oliver over a grumpy, grumble-y Oliver.

A little bit stuck, she tried leaning some of her weight on her hands, but the snow gave way beneath her, leaving her half in, half out of the snowbank. She turned back to him, grinning. “Would you mind kind of...” she shrugged, “ _shoving_ me the rest of the way.”

Oliver rolled his eyes at her. “I’m not going to _shove_ you anywhere,” he answered, but before she could respond, he had his hands around her waist and was lifting her, helping her into the knee-high snow.

She spared him a happy smile, then held her hands out to her sides and fell backwards into the snow with a happy squeal. She realized there was really _too much_ snow for effective snow angel making, but she tried anyway. The snow squeaked and crunched beneath her as she moved her arms and legs, laughing into the cold air, her eyes half-shut against the falling flakes. 

When she sat up, snow sneaking down the back of her jacket and making her shiver, Oliver was watching her with one of his warm, genuine smiles. One of those smiles that he bestowed almost exclusively on her. Grinning back, she clambered to her feet. She glanced behind her at her handiwork — it was… not awesome.

With a rueful shrug, she turned back to Oliver, raising her hands toward him. “Care to give me a lift back?” 

He didn’t so much as bat an eye at her request, simply stepped closer and reached for her.

"Have you ever even seen snow like this?" she demanded as his hands grabbed her waist and he swung her back onto the semi-plowed footpath. Because she remembered drunken college nights building snowmen and having snowball fights and falling on her ass in snowbanks. Starling got snow occasionally, but not two feet of light, fluffy snow that blew around and formed gorgeous, wind-shaped drifts. 

Oliver set her down gently. “I lived in Moscow.”

She looked up at him, her mitten-clad hands still resting on his shoulders. It wasn’t an answer she expected, and she was so distracted that she didn’t realize his hands were still on her waist. Because he was telling her more of his secrets, more about his sucky five years. Some of which, apparently, were spent in Russia. Learning Russian. And joining the Bratva.

She didn’t know exactly how to answer, so she made an encouraging noise and looked up at him, awaiting his cues. They were standing close. Absurdly close, considering they had most of the public garden to themselves, but Felicity had no interest in moving.

Oliver glanced around, taking in the deserted, whitewashed landscape before he answered quietly. “I didn’t used to like the snow.” Those bright blue eyes focused on her, he added, “But you might be bringing me around.”

Felicity weighed her options, and then leaned up to kiss his cheek. His skin was cool beneath her lips, and she smiled against him. “I think,” she said as she settled back onto her heels, “that you aren’t allowed to decide until you make a snow angel.”

He met her gaze, then. “Really.” He looked much less stressed — a smattering of snowflakes across the black of his jacket, his eyes bluer than usual in the bright, bright daylight. 

"Really," she answered with a nod, feeling a strange fluttering in her chest.

His eyebrow arched just a bit, and he said, “I think I have a better idea.” 

Slowly, torturously slowly, he leaned down, and then his lips were on hers. Felicity’s hands tightened on his shoulder, and she pressed against him, kissing him with abandon.

When he pulled back, grinning down at her, Felicity took a deep breath of wintry air and glanced over her shoulder at the hotel. “I think,” she said, taking a step back and reaching for his hand, “that’s enough snow for the day.”

"Yeah?" he answered, letting her tug him back towards the street, and towards the warm hotel with its decadent beds.

"Yeah."

END


End file.
